


love is real, but i really mean it this time

by dashielldeveron



Series: love is real: saeran's boogaloo [2]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Coffee Shop Owner Kang Jaehee (Mystic Messenger), Depression, F/M, Marriage, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Smut, Therapy, christian!reader, depressed!reader, horny saeran rights, ngl they don't have public sex in the first chapter but, post mint eye, they're in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashielldeveron/pseuds/dashielldeveron
Summary: sequel tolove is real, but i'm evil now.You've finally escaped from Mint Eye. That means you can finally get back into society, be stupidly cutely married, and havepublic sex.I mean, after all the therapy.Character exploration fic about dealing with the aftermath of Mint Eye, particularly Saeran's mental health, integrating yourself back into the RFA, and being married as fuck.
Relationships: Choi Saeran & Main Character, Choi Saeran/Main Character, Choi Saeran/Reader
Series: love is real: saeran's boogaloo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067777
Comments: 20
Kudos: 66





	1. fellowship

A soft crunch sounded with the early morning frost with every other step, one foot in the grass and one hitting the side of the road that sloped down the mountain. “Do we have signal yet?”

“No, but I hear a car around the bend. Thumbs out,” said Saeran, the back of his head glowing white in the barest rays of light before dawn, and he stuck out his thumb while searching for a phone signal with the other.

The headlights of what hopefully was a civilian car gradually lit the back of your hand, the shadow of your thumb sliding between Saeran’s knuckles ahead of you.

***

The initial hullabaloo over your miraculous escape came close to overwhelming you; so many people willing to reach out to help seemed too good to be true, and though you thought Mint Eye hadn’t affected you psychologically _too_ much, you kept searching on impulse for malice behind the kindness of strangers.

Saeran similarly froze up when the cameras flashed in your faces, and his hand shot to clutch yours. If you hadn’t known his tells, Saeran would have looked calm about the attention, but the sweat on his hairline and the aversion of eye contact said otherwise.

Jumin thankfully shielded you from the limelight after the first press conference, and Jaehee shepherded the two of you through your first few hours back in civilisation through a series of sterile, almost clinical rooms: in C&R, in the hospital Jumin deemed appropriate, in lobbies, and in lifts. Everyone felt it was good that you and Saeran not be separated during this, as you were each other’s foundation in reality, so you smiled weakly at each other while blood was drawn and medical charts created and updated, all while you and Saeran dictated into Jaehee’s handheld recorder the information that held priority: where Magenta was, what Mint Eye was doing to its members, and how to stop them.

With a team dispatched to Magenta, you pushed it away from the front of your mind to focus on what was happening right in front of you. At his request, Saeran set up his laptop to render Mint Eye clueless and isolated to what was occurring, and he worked with Jumin to get the ball rolling, while you held Elizabeth III with your eyes glazed over.

Feeling strangely fine.

Fresh clothes, slumped on a leather couch in Jumin penthouse flat, with a window functioning as a full wall overlooking Seoul’s cityscape. Cat on your lap. Someone asked you what you wanted to eat, and you nearly mcfuckin’ lost it. The luxury of choice.

While Jaehee, Jumin, and his people made phone calls and contacts on your behalf (your chin on Saeran’s shoulder, your breath on his neck), it struck you how their immense kindness was disproportionate to established friendship: you had only texted them for a few days before the messenger had gone dead. Hell, this was the first time seeing them in person. And they were so keen to make you feel _comfort_.

Staring at his fingers tapping the keyboard, you licked your lips before pressing a kiss into Saeran’s t-shirt. How interesting it was that outside of Mint Eye, grace abounds.

Neither you nor Saeran slept that night. Jumin’s flat was had been designed with human comfort and privacy in mind, so it was too eerie an environment for the first night. You and Saeran sat with your backs against the wide window, enjoying each other’s presence in the city night lights, a violet glow to his skin.

When the press dropped later that week that a toxic cult had been raided and shut down, along with the fact that the whistle-blower had been a missing son of the recently imprisoned, former prime minister, Zen had to fight his way through crowds into C&R to see you, and Yoosung ended up needing a professional escort. You found yourself smiling incredulously to yourself all too often—they _cared_ ; people _cared_ , despite hardly knowing you.

You had told the story over and over again, so you and Saeran had been working on writing a narrative of your time at Magenta for official record. You typed onto a new laptop Jumin had gifted you while the six of you lounged around Jumin’s front room, talking about your experience and writing up new details as you recalled them.

Neither you nor Saeran wanted to sand away any of what you endured, so you’d agreed to be meticulously thorough these first few days, even though it would be exhausting. You were already worn thin, like a bedsheet washed and bleached too many times over the years, but memory repression could set in at any time.

And so you typed casually with Saeran’s thigh thrown over yours on the couch, with Zen across from you with his elbows on his knees, Yoosung recounting his latest omelette attempt once encouraged, Jumin with his arms crossed while he stood with Elizabeth III around his neck like a boa, and Jaehee next to you with her heels kicked off and glasses folded and hooked onto her blouse.

His absence hung around the room like smoke from a kitchen accident: the windows were propped open, but it lingered despite efforts to wave it away.

Saeyoung.

Jumin had told you privately that Saeyoung had been contacted, but Saeran found out; he wasn’t stupid. Your return could hardly be hidden, anyway, for the cult disbandment and Rika’s arrest were everyone online and on public broadcasting. Saeyoung most likely had all of the information you’d put out there about the whole ordeal.

Saeyoung? He…he could wait. This was a whole lot, anyway, and Saeyoung would be yet another layer of issues to deal with. Becoming human first. Family later.

And it was _good_ to see everyone, to get to know them and their own voices, _real_ and in front of you. Living through your own body and living through a chat room? They couldn’t compare; they were leagues apart.

You and Saeran changed phones and numbers, lest some loose Mint Eye recruit track you down, and a new version of the messenger was made: one where Saeran and Saeyoung couldn’t be active in a chat room at the same time ( _for now_ being the hushed whisper of a cork stuffed in a bottle gaining pressure).

So, as the first week whizzed by in flashes of medical visits, bank accounts, governmental registrations, each night you and Saeran lay on the carpet next to the wide window, your hands sliding underneath his shirt to stroke his spine, jutting out as he crunched to wrap his legs around yours (he flinched when his bare knees grazed the cold of the window and curled more tightly around you).

***

“It’s very good that we have a friend who is both rich and stupid,” said Saeran, thumbs tapping at his phone in the back seat of a company car.

Grinning, you shook your head. “Jumin isn’t stupid; he’s simply one-track minded—well, okay. I see your point, but I don’t wholly agree.”

“A joke,” he said with a flash of his eyebrows, and he reached across the seat to hold your hand, his fingers sliding through yours. “A joke. It’s beyond my comprehension that someone could be so generous to us. I’m beyond grateful.” He locked his phone and set it face-down on his leg. “I want to do something for him.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Saeran bit his lower lip. “I’m not quite certain yet. Nothing we do could repay him monetarily, so I want it to have meaning to him.”

“We’ll think of something,” you said, “I think that the best we can do right now is take the opportunities he’s presenting to us.”

“Mm.” Saeran blinked slowly, and his mouth stretched into a lax smile. Around your finger, he twisted the ring acquired that morning, after your marriage had been legally recognised by the government and the church (your anniversary would stay the same; thank God). Plain, unadorned, white gold. He had a similar one on his hand, and whenever he noticed it, he started to grin, that bitch.

“We’ve arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Choi,” said the driver from the front seat, “I’ll be on call for you at all hours for the next week. Contact me for anything.”

You and Saeran unloaded your bags of basic clothes Jumin had given you and thanked the driver before he left for the nearest hotel—which, admittedly, was some drive away. You gave a wave as you stood at the end of your winding driveway, where Saeran tapped the flag of the new mailbox.

“I suppose we don’t yet have an address,” said Saeran, stooping to look inside it.

“Do we get to name the road? I want to name the road.”

“Name it what?”

“Something stupid. Something memorable,” you said, shrugging, “The name’ll come to us. Are you ready?”

Saeran pulled his jeans up by the belt loop and gripped his duffel bag. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You wandered down the freshly cobblestoned path (converted from dirt; Jumin’s people worked _fast_ ) and through a layer of trees that blocked the house from the road: an overgrown, knobbly-looking thing patchworked together with stone and wood from houses that had been torn down, a crackly nest of vines that would bloom into wisteria in the spring growing up the side, and a porch fenced off with driftwood bedecked with sea glass smoothed by the weather. It had belonged to a couple of nature-based, bohemian-type artists that the elder Mr. Han had sponsored some time ago, and you were welcome to alter it as you pleased.

Saeran leant against the yellow front door, crossing his arms with a soft smile while he watched you pat your pockets for the key.

“I hope the inside is pretentious as shit,” you said, turning the key in the lock, “but I know what _you’re_ dying to see.”

Saeran’s face lit up when you entered the garden behind the house. Massive. Dead in winter. Only cut off by the impeding forest surrounding the property.

“This place is a total fucking mess,” said Saeran brightly, “It’s _so_ poorly planned out; I can tell at a glance. I wonder if they even bothered to change the soil types for certain flower beds.”

He grabbed your hand and fucking dragged the previous owners as you looked around the garden. Crouching to rub dirt between his fingers, pressing his palm against the trees and staring into their bare branches, and inspecting the boundaries, Saeran surmised that he could spend the better part of the month plotting a new layout, working with the trees established enough to stay.

While he as thinking aloud about the design choices for the flower bed borders and lack thereof in some cases, he spun on his heel towards you. “This sucks! I’m so fucking excited to fix it,” said Saeran, and he took your hands in his, sliding his up to your elbows to jerk you close enough to kiss.

“Me, too. I can’t wait for you to teach me about all of this,” you said, nudging your nose against his, “Now, we should probably double back to see if we have something that resembles a kitchen.”

While you unpacked, which didn’t take long, Saeran and you were trying to enumerate all of the things you still had to do before life started again, and once you exhumed a stray planner in a dresser drawer, you started to write it down.

“Step one: groceries,” said Saeran, plopping onto the arm of the chair you sat in, “The spice cabinet in this place is abominable.”

“Today?”

“Mm, tomorrow, please,” said Saeran with a groan, “I don’t want to drive back to the city today. Plus, we’ll be heading back there, anyway. I have more bloodwork, and didn’t you want to connect with friends?”

“Yes, but that’s not a priority.” You put that down to the side of the list, to be shuffled in later. “Did you contact that military representative? The one whose card Jaehee gave you?”

“I got an email this morning that I don’t have to serve the two years,” said Saeran, propping his head on his hand, “Thank _fuck_. Being in a cult most of my life is enough, apparently.”

You crossed that off the list. “Great. Therapy starts the day after tomorrow. Mine starts back the session after that.”

(God, that phone call to your therapist, Ko Soo-Jin [but encouraged her clients to call her Suzy], had been embarrassing. She’d picked up the phone and after it’s-been-awhile, had enquired where and how you’d been.

“Well, um,” you’d said, your voice echoing one of the capacious, too-brightly lit bathrooms in Jumin’s penthouse while you sat on the tile, “There’s no other way to put it: for the past ten months, I’ve been in a brainwashing, religious cult hidden in the mountains, where I married the Christ-figure—wait, hold on.” You’d put your hand over the speaker and shouted towards the bedroom. “Saeran, would you say you were the Christ-figure or more like John the Baptist, Simon Peter, or Paul?”

“John the Baptist implies forerunner, so no, even though I did evangelise for her. Probably Simon Peter, since I was supposed to lead her church?” His shout had had the lilt of laughter to it.

“Thank you! Simon Peter figure,” you’d said back into your phone, “of the cult, and we are very happily married. Don’t worry; I did my best to use the tools you have taught me to maintain mental stability the best I could while I was there, and I helped my husband break enough from the cult programming to escape.”

Suzy’s end had fallen silent. “I see,” she’d said after a beat, “ _You’re_ the one in the news. Huh.”

“I never took the drugs,” you’d said so that she wouldn’t have to respond, “and Saeran—he’s my, uh, husband—secretly weaned himself off of it. So, I was wondering if you still had an opening in your schedule for me and if you knew anyone who would be good for Saeran.”

“Okay,” Suzy had said, “When are you available?”

“At the moment, I am available every moment. Saeran and I are available at all times, currently.”

Eventually, you’d put your phone on speaker and had gone into the bedroom to include Saeran in the conversation, with Suzy asking him some basic questions about how he’s doing, and the call had culminated with an appointment with a psychiatrist to get him properly diagnosed.

That appointment had been yesterday, and after the session and IQ test, Saeran had received a laundry list of diagnoses—but! The psychiatrist informed him that he was in the best possible mindset he could be at this point. He could be _a lot_ worse, and his prescriptions could be picked up from the pharmacy tomorrow.

Saeran had been given the choice between two therapists, a woman and a man, and after hesitating, he chose the female therapist, Bai Mari, verbally processing aloud that he’s more used to trusting and opening up to women, since V led him to inherently distrust men.

And he started only two days away. Saeran and you were preparing by talking about your past sessions and looking at therapy memes, and he was warming up to it.

_Baby._ )

***

You rubbed your thumb over the back of Saeran’s hand once you parked the car outside of Eureka Moment. Saeran had dressed in the cosiest clothes he currently owned, wielding his own box of tissues, even though he’d been informed they could easily be provided.

You brought his hand to your lips. “If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be in the car until the end of time.”

“I know,” he said, licking his lips, “It’s just—I never thought this would be me. There’s such a fucking stigma around it, and I’ve never thought I’ve needed it until now. And what’s more, I don’t know where to begin.”

“She’ll guide you.”

“ _God_ —damn it.” Saeran sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s almost time, isn’t it?”

You nodded. “Gotta be fifteen minutes early for paperwork.”

Saeran had to go outside the provided box to list all of the drugs he had been using via elixir, but the receptionist didn’t bat an eye. When Bai Mari was ready for him, she came to retrieve him from the lobby, and he turned around to walk backwards for a moment to give you a little wave.

However, thirty minutes into his session, Mari called you back to her room. You didn’t ask Saeran, his face blotchy and terse, what the matter was but simply sat next to him on the couch to rub his back, and he gripped your other hand tightly.

Once you squeezed his hand, Saeran opened his mouth. “Right…I believe we were at the part where my mother tied me up in the kitchen.”

Oh, fuck. He was there already?

“She said it was out of love, but I know that’s bullshit. Or at least it’s a warped version of love. Said I was her favourite but kept me dehydrated. Fed me less.” Saeran stared at the floor, his brow drawn in confused contemplation. “Those ropes were the only things in the house that weren’t falling apart. Everything else would get broken, but, like, only the stuff that were designated to be—not hers. She wouldn’t break her own stuff.”

Nodding, Mari said that that was a common sign of narcissism in an abuser.

“I see. Huh. See, I know it was abuse, but I don’t fucking know why. She had the blackmail element with my dad, so that should’ve been going for her. Hell, I don’t even know what she _did_ ; she’d lock herself in the bedroom for hours. I think she was on the telephone.” Saeran scratched his eyebrow and kept doing it, like the repetitive motion grounded him. “I never knew why _I_ was the one tied up; she couldn’t’ve loved me more when I had nothing going for me whatsoever. Every slice of personality had been beaten out of me. Wait,” said Saeran, and he sat up straight to look her in the eye. “Am I spending too much time on when I was a kid? Should I tell you more about Mint Eye first?”

“You’re saying what you feel is the most important for me to understand as a foundation. There’s no structure to this. Spend as much time as you want with your childhood.” She tilted her head. “Saeran, I’ve noticed you keep making unfinished comparisons, using words like _less_ and _favourite_ ,” said Mari, “Are you maybe comparing her behaviour to a time before the abuse started, or perhaps was there someone else in the house she treated better? Someone who visited?”

Sucking in a breath, Saeran tapped his fingers on his knee and blinked. Eventually, he shook himself and spoke. “I would prefer not to speak about my twin brother as much as possible. I understand I can’t avoid it entirely, but I would like to. For now.”

***

You stepped in the gaps between Saeran’s paints on the kitchen floor to give him a slice of clementine. Keeping his eyes on the wall, he opened his mouth to take it from your fingers and chewed slowly.

“I think I want to try painting,” Saeran had said last week while he helped you stretch, once you reached a stopping point in your freelance work, “I won’t be good at it, but that’s good. I want to be allowed to be bad at something, and I want to spend my time making the world more beautiful.”

Now, he was painting fruits onto a white wall across from the stove, against which the two-person table used was usually pushed, but for the moment, it had been pushed out into the hallway with the kitchen rug rolled up atop it.

Saeran fucking adored that rug. He’d found the stupid thing in the ratty, back room of a thrift store, and therefore you would have a calico cat with a cookie in its mouth on your kitchen floor until the end of time.

Saeran took to thrifting like a little scavenger man. Hood up, mask on, and going through people’s shit that you were welcome to take. Easy to get lost. Cluttered. He was the one who had spotted the baker’s racks that shelved books and plants in your living room, and he was the one to begin what the two of you hoped would be an absolutely bizarre collection of art, starting with a framed print of a Tyrannosaurus Rex holding some peonies.

“You’re in your slutty maximalist phase, baby,” you said, tossing some clementine peel in the compost bin, “and I want you to be a whore.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up while he dragged his brush to make the curved shine on a grape. “After living a life of denying myself everything, I’d like to think I can indulge.”

“Please. Here’s to hoping you fall in love with being alive,” you said, raising a clementine slice in a toast. “By the way,” you said thickly, “were you in the RFA app around noon?”

Sighing, Saeran said, “We have _got_ to come up with a new name for the organisation.”

“Yeah, but to what?”

“Something using Hangeul, for one.”

“RFA is already embroidered on all our shit; we’d lose brand recognition.”

“Good.”

“Saeran,” you said, and you swallowed your fruit. “But did you see the chatroom?”

He twisted the tip of his paintbrush to make his strokes thinner. “Haven’t been near my phone in a while.”

“Thought not. Here,” you said, crossing to stand behind him and hold out your phone in front of him, “Yoosung sent us a preview of your fashion choices.”

While the tips of his ears went red, he cupped his hand over his mouth and stared at the screen. Yoosung had sent two pictures from his, Saeran’s, and Zen’s day out (mostly to help him with the beginnings of a wardrobe that wasn’t straight out of Jumin’s closet). One picture showed Saeran with a blazer over a turtleneck with some sort of belt thing going across his chest while tilting his head up with a pensive expression to speak to Zen, who looked a little too satisfied with himself. Saeran’s back faced the camera in the next picture, but his reflection in the dressing room mirror captured him scratching the back of his head with the smallest smile, wearing a chunky, cream sweater and a pink scarf over a button-up.

“Oh, shit,” said Saeran, dragging his hand down his face, “How _embarrassing_.”

“You are _adorable_.”

He leant his head backwards to look up at you. “You weren’t supposed to see any of it yet. It was gonna be a surprise.”

“Well, I won’t lie to you by acting surprised when you wear it,” you said, sinking your fingers into his hair (he immediately closed his eyes and leant into it, raising his eyebrows at the sensation), “but I _will_ wait in voracious anticipation.”

Saeran grinned when your fingertips reached the hair on the back of his neck. “Voracious, hm?”

“Yeah. You put on a black turtleneck, and suddenly, I’m a huge slut.”

“ _Interesting._ I hear it’s supposed to be frigid tomorrow,” said Saeran, blinking his eyes open, “Who knows what might happen.”

You went over the kitchen sink to look out the window, and the night frost already blotted the grass. “Cold tomorrow, so soup tonight.”

Saeran wiped off his brush and picked up the first paint cap to screw it back on. “So, we’re not making anything in the _oven_ with your highfalutin, fancy-ass, _oven mitts_?”

“Listen,” you said, spinning on your heel, “You’re a fucking maniac for using dishtowels instead of oven mitts—”

“I haven’t gotten burnt _so far_ ,” he said, scrunching his nose in an annoyingly smug sort of way.

“Fuck you,” you said, stooping to pull a soup pot out of a low drawer.

Saeran put the final paint bottle in a box and stood. “Do you want me to chop up the vegetables?”

“Yeah. You do it more evenly than I do.”

He set the box on the table in the hallway while you scoured the cupboards for store-bought broth, and after rifling through the refrigerator, he paused. “Where do we keep the bell peppers?”

“In the—” You frowned. “Where _do_ we keep the bell peppers?”

“They’re not in the vegetable or fruit drawers, and they’re not behind the eggs—”

“That’s because I left them in the car,” you said, slapping a hand to your forehead. “At least they’ll be cold, I guess.”

“I’ll go get them,” said Saeran, placing his hand on the small of your back while he crossed behind you.

Once he returned and his bare feet warmed up, Saeran seized a knife and cut up the bell peppers on the counter, next to you measuring spices. An easy smile grew on his face to the constant, muted sounds of boiling water and the knife hitting the cutting board.

You nudged his hip with yours. “So, you were okay going out with Zen and Yoosung today? They didn’t overwhelm you?”

“Zen and Yoosung strike a manageable balance. I can look to Zen as a lesson in presentation-slash-preservation of the self. Since he’s always throwing himself into characters, Zen has over time gotten a solid idea of who _Zen_ is, instead of living through something someone else has written.” Saeran pinched a scrap of a pepper and held it up to your lips, which closed around it. “So, overall, I believe Zen isn’t intimidating because of how _genuine_ he is. I can learn from him. And Yoosung isn’t intimidating because he’s a little _bitch_.”

You covered your smile with the back of your hand, ducking your head towards your chin.

Saeran quirked his head. “Please don’t hide your smile from me, darling. There’s no need to feel bad for smiling.”

“Ah! Sorry, sorry. Force of habit.”

“ _And_ didn’t your therapist tell you to stop apologising for everything? You’re apologising for existing,” said Saeran, corralling the bell pepper slices with the knife over to the side of the cutting board.

“Shit, you’re right. I’ll do better! Thanks for pointing it out.” You screwed the lid back on the sesame oil. “What else happened with Yoosung and Zen?”

Saeran’s expression fell flat, and so did his tone. “They tried to give me hair advice.”

“I _did_ notice your roots are showing.”

“I’m not gonna take any hair advice from someone who has a rattail, nor from someone who deliberately keeps his hair long enough that he _has_ to wear a barrette, lest his hair block his view.”

Cleaning as you went, you put away ingredients. “Mm. Are you gonna keep bleaching it?”

Saeran nodded. “It was my decision to dye my hair in the first place. I got so tired of looking into the mirror and seeing my brother, so. Rika fucked with my identity more after that. But dying my hair was for me. So, I will, but it’s not a permanent answer.”

“ _God_ , you are so much more insightful than when I first started therapy,” you said, turning to the side to kiss his cheek (after which point he turned his head the opposite direction so that you could kiss that cheek, too. You obliged), “I was a self-hating, close-minded, little bee-yotch, and you? You’re—”

“I’m only this far ahead because I have someone like you to guide me.” Saeran winced when he used both hands to make the first cut in the onion. “You’ve already been through this. You didn’t have a support system to keep you in check. You had to do it all by yourself. And I’m so grateful that you’re with me for every step of the way.”

Saeran reached to cup your face, but you ducked under his arm. “No! You’re all onion-y.”

“ _Fuuuuck_ , fine,” said Saeran, rolling his watering eyes, “This shit never gets easier.” He tapped an onion half with the blade while he wiped away tears with his sleeve.

“A reason why _you_ are doing it.”

“ _Hey_ ,” said Saeran, dropping his arm and his scowl. “Actually, I know how to get you back all over me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Fat chance, onion juice man.”

“I know your weakness,” said Saeran with a smirk, and he set the knife down to roll up his sleeves to the elbow.

Your mouth opened and closed, and you crossed your arms, grudgingly stepping towards him as he intentionally flexed his forearms.

***

Jaehee’s coffee shop had been rising in popularity, but if you got there early enough after therapy, an atmosphere like sinking into an onsen in the dead of night reigned. You stretched out in the darkest corner of the café, popping your toes underneath the blue kotatsu you and Saeran had thrifted for her. Jaehee had requested you come test it out to see if it’d be a quality addition to her shop during the winter.

(She still looked over Jumin’s shit every other week to see if he were holding up without her, and though she was working for him less, Jumin showed more and more _gratitude_ now that she was gone. Jaehee turned very smug whenever this was brought up.)

Zen and Saeran carried the drinks and snacks back from the counter, weaving their way through seasonal western-style setups, with Saeran even giving a small nod to another customer in passing. They sat on either side of you, with Saeran sliding you your drink while Zen hesitantly set the plate in the middle of the kotatsu, trying to keep the balance of stacked goods.

“—didn’t think of it like that. I come from the school of _Mr. McStuffy Stuffed All His Feelings Down with the Feeling Stuffer-Downer,_ ” Zen was saying while he crossed his legs.

“ _Tell_ me about it,” said Saeran, rolling his eyes and tossing both of you a straw from the cardboard drink-holder, “It never occurred to me that there aren’t any _necessarily_ inherently bad emotions and that you’re supposed to feel them out to the extent of their reach, instead of denying them.”

Zen took off his baseball cap, spun it around his finger twice, and set it on the floor. “You should hear yourself. You’re sounding like your wife.”

“Am I?” Grinning, Saeran twisted the lid of his lavender-honey latte before taking a sip. “That’s good news. Is yours good?” Saeran nodded towards your drink.

“Hell, yeah,” you said, “Is anyone claiming that lemon bar?”

“Go ahead,” said Zen, leaning back on his hands while scanning the plate himself.

“Anyway, I thought it might help with both your acting and personal health, and—” Saeran caught himself and idly smiled at the ceiling. “And I was just excited to share with someone.”

“No, I get it. I _probably_ shouldn’t drink instead of feel. I need to work on that,” said Zen, and he swiped a piece of avocado toast and crunched into it. “I need to work on a lot of things, probably. The inside should match the perfection of the outside, right?”

“Perfection is unrealistic and unobtainable,” said Saeran, edging a piece of strawberry cake onto his own plate.

Zen swallowed thickly. “Well, aren’t we right on the nose today.”

“I’m _trying_ to reinforce in my head what I just learnt about thirty minutes ago,” said Saeran, and he unwrapped his fork from his napkin, “I don’t care if it doesn’t match up with your agenda.”

“Plus, how can you deny perfection when it’s right in front of you?” Zen rolled his shoulders back and winked at you, making you choke on your lemon bar. “We probably all have shit to work on,” said Zen, and he chewed his toast in silence for a bit.

Therapy _had_ been successful today. You hadn’t sat in, instead waiting in the lobby with your planner and book, and you’d spoken with the receptionist about Saeran’s Sunday night group therapy—which he had voluntarily joined, because otherwise his brain automatically went to _vespers mode_ on Sunday nights. You’d informed the receptionist that Saeran might be late this Sunday night, because the two of you had tickets to attend a local college’s matinee of _As You Like It_.

(The more Saeran thought about it, the more theatre made sense in terms of easing himself back into feeling all right around crowds: you go into a dark room to experience art collectively, and you don’t have to interact with anyone. Everyone has that collective catharsis at the end of the play, and then you zoom out before anyone can talk to you. He’d suggested the college performance, stating that Zen’s level of theatre would probably overwhelm him at the moment.)

Zen set his toast down. “Does _everyone_ in the RFA have daddy issues?”

Choking on your lemon bar again, you handed a napkin to Saeran, who had done an _actual fucking spit take_ , with coffee burbling down his chin.

“No, I’m serious,” said Zen, “I ran away from home. CEO-in-line— _obviously_. You and—” Zen jerked his head to the side. “—your dad’s an actual criminal. Jaehee, her dad’s fucking _dead_ , and her mom is, too—fuck. Yoosung.” Zen frowned and took a swig of his drink.

“Yoosung’s probably got the most normal family situation,” you said.

“Would it be a stretch to say he has mommy issues?”

“Yeah,” said Saeran, “I think so. Though, by extension, I might have both daddy _and_ mo—” He cut himself off and sighed.

“It’s okay, baby; you just have _issues_ ,” you said, rubbing his back between his shoulder blades.

“No, it’s—I feel dumb about it,” he said, taking off the lid to his latte and setting it to the side, “It’s fucking cliché, isn’t it? And it’s me.”

Tilting your head, you stretched your legs out over his under the kotatsu, and his eyes softened. “No, what’s dumb about it is that it’s so common for men to fail to nurture their children that there’s a name for it.”

“Yeah, it’s dumb that so many people know about it that there’s jokes and shit about it,” said Zen, and he propped his chin on his fist, leaning over the plate again. “I’ll never understand how you could fuck someone so well that you become her _father_.”

You and Saeran visibly jolted at that.

“Holy shit, two different things.” You placed a hand over your heart and took a deep breath.

“Are they, though?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “This is not a conversation I ever wanted to have.”

“Listen,” said Zen, gesturing wildly with a strawberry, “I don’t like my dad. I don’t want to think of my dad while I’m having sex. Simple as that.” He bit into it, his tongue swiping the red juice trickling out of the corner of his mouth. “If other people have even kind of comparable experiences as me, then I don’t understand how they could be turned on by being called _daddy_.”

“Zen, I think—” You covered your mouth; this was a terrible joke; this was a _terrible_ joke. “I expect it’s like when you’re called _oppa_.”

Zen flushed, turned his head to the side, and similarly covered his own mouth. “That’s different.”

You took a sip of your drink. “I wonder what it’s like to hang about with well-adjusted people. The type who have a bowl of lemons in the kitchen.”

“ _I_ wonder if these palmiers are made in-house,” said Saeran, holding one up to the light, “The layering is phenomenal.”

Grinning, you glanced at him as he bit into it, his eyes closing as he chewed. “Do they taste any good?”

“I mean,” said Saeran, looking down at his cookie, “They taste like palmiers.”

“Hold up,” said Zen, sulking as he slapped the table twice like a gavel, “I thought we were talking about kinks.”

“My kink is monogamy,” said Saeran flatly, and he untangled himself out from underneath the kotatsu. “I’m gonna go ask Jaehee if they’re baked in-house. Be right back, love.”

***

When Saeran groaned himself awake, he groggily pushed himself upright and rubbed an eye with the heel of his palm, mouthing _fuck_ as he did so. He blindly reached for your side of the bed, and when he struck cool sheets, he glanced towards—yeah, from your place on the floor next to the glass sliding door, you were bookmarking your place and setting your book aside, three-quarters of your face lit by moonlight.

You kicked your book away and crossed your legs to lean fully against the wall, eyes half-lidded as your gaze dropped to the quilts pooling around his waist.

His hand fell to his lap. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shook your head.

“Aren’t you cold? Next to the window.”

Again, you shook your head.

Saeran scooted back to the headboard, first flipping his pillow to the cooler side, and when he straightened himself, he clasped and unclasped his hands, fiddling with his fingers in the silence before saying, “I had a dream about you.”

You smiled, blinking slowly. “Tell me.”

“Are you certain?” He raised his chin. “It gets…”

“Let me know?”

“All right.” A narrow, dark smile stretched across his face. “It’s night, and the moon is bright, brighter than now, brighter than usual, but it’s only on you. About where you’re sitting now. But you’ve got your forehead pressed against the window, hoping the chill will—” Saeran shifted so that he could better see you. “—drive away the heat.

“Your face is red; you’re flushed down your neck and the top of your chest, and you’ve been panting, but you’re trying to bring yourself to breathe normally. Your hair’s messed up, sweat dotted through it, and you bite your lip, though it’s swollen. But I hear a whimper you try to hide, and you scrunch your eyes tight with effort. There’s no other way to put it: you look _well-fucked._ ”

You swallowed with a dry throat.

“And I know what I’ve done to you to make you look like this. When I’d come into the bedroom, you were wrapped in a quilt near the window, and I’d set it aside, wordlessly taken your shirt off. It’s late, so you’re not wearing a bra, and you say something about being cold even before all this—words are garbled, as if we’re underwater. And I need a second to look at you,” said Saeran, tilting his head to the side, “There’s a hunger for a lesson in what your body can do.

“You’re tense on the cusp of what I might do. With my mouth simply pressed to your skin, I let you soak in anticipation. I start below your collarbone. Licking. Kissing, as I descend to your breasts. Biting, ever so gently, if you want—and you _want_. Barely out of the valley between your breasts, where one begins to rise, I suck a hickey—not too hard, not too hard, though. It’s light and pink, because I want to make it again soon. And I kiss it better.”

You drew your knees to your chest and hugged them to conceal your chest—a _zing_ had shot through your nipples at his words, and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. Yet.

“Your tits are red by the time I finish sucking on them, and the only way I know when to finish is when that first stifled moan shifts through your throat: that rough passing of air that almost sounds like you’re mad at me,” said Saeran, “While I’m massaging my hands up and down your thighs, relaxing them, making them part _just_ a hair, I make my way down your stomach. You grab my hair and force me to slow down, to spend more time on the journey, because we both know that the instant you let up, my head will be between your legs. When you part them— _oh_ , your scent.” Through a shudder, Saeran breathed in deeply, as if he could smell you from his place on the bed. “You’re cold again, and you want me to get on with it, but even in my dreams, I always take a moment to look at you before using my mouth. You’re lovelier each time.”

Resting your chin on your knees, you asked, “Do you make me wait?”

He grins. “Unfortunately for you. Because, like in oftentimes in wake, I find myself thinking about your thighs. How at home they make me feel, how comforted. Soft. I mouth against them—I _love_ mouthing against them—all dry but full of an affection I need you to feel. And how _warm_ I feel between them, how—how you’re a paper lantern—you unfold for me and let me light you afire, and the flame between your legs, the way your heat stays on my fingers long after I’ve removed them—evidence,” he said slowly, “of you all around.

“When I notice you taking your mind away, I tug at your pubic hair, draw your attention down. I want you to see me, make you watch, when my face is dripping with your slick, and I can barely keep my eyes open from how deliciously heady your scent, your _taste_ is—”

Saeran cut himself off. It’s really not fair, because Saeran’s shielded by darkness, and you’re exposed in the moonlight through the glass.

“All this,” said Saeran, “All this I’ve already done, and now I reap the benefits: I get to witness you come apart. Come undone. And you’re pulling my hair and squirming and absolutely _gorgeous_ , and I _hear_ it; I fucking hear the sweetest sound I know: that little gasp, that sharp inhale, that lets me know you’ve reached it. That I’ve somehow reached you in struggling to convey _exactly_ how much I feel for you.

“But that’s not the end. I’m already enchanted, completely _shattered_ simply by being near you, but then you manage to lean forward to place a kiss on my hipbone. There’s no hiding it, never a thought, but I’m so erect that I’m certain that if you fucking breathed in my direction, I would come. We’re both cold in that moment of catching up, but when you press your sweet, _sweet_ body against mine, there’s warmth again.”

Saeran paused before he spoke again, this time with a dryness to his voice. “You drag your tongue against my skin the entire way to my cock, and I’m throbbing; you haven’t even really touched me, and I’m losing it. I try to say something but stutter, and I _ache_ ; my cock fucking aches for you.”

You found the voice to say, “Let it ache.”

Saeran swore under his breath and bit a knuckle. “It’s a pain so sweet that I’m not anywhere as lucid as I am now when you take me in your mouth. It’s—it’s as if you’re trying each of the myriad of ways you could pull noises from me. Your mouth has, and always will be, _divine_. A goddamn gift from God.” Saeran tore his hand away from his mouth to instead clench his bouncing knee still. “I knew you wanted to hear me whimper, to have me beg for more, and I know that I would give you anything you want, and that desire is only fortified when my cum spurts down the back of your throat. And then I wake up,” said Saeran.

“And then you wake up,” you said, swallowing.

His eyes flickered in the dim moonlight. “And I see my _endlessly_ patient, immensely _dazzling_ wife, sitting right where I left her in my dream,” he said with a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

And your heart _swells_.

You sat up straighter, and you grab the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head. “Saeran,” you said, extending a hand towards him, “I’m cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have had the outline of this in my drafts for months. this chapter isn't influenced by saeran's after ending, and hopefully neither will the future chapters, though i may throw in some thoughts about v. 
> 
> edit: good ending achieved. post spoilers as you wish.


	2. sanctification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> salt 'n' pepa voice: let's talk about [MENTAL HEALTH oh and also] sex, baby
> 
> warning: brief discussion of voluntary sterilisation. also, fair amount of "therapy talk" in this one. this is because we are seeing the scenes in their life that would elicit it.

“She gave me a hacking book.”

In the otherwise vacant group therapy room, Saeran reclined on the rug halfway on top of you—you were sitting upright against the wall and cushions with your earplugs at the ready, in case Saeran didn’t want you to hear something, and Saeran lay partially atop your crossed legs, his head on your slumped stomach with his own legs stretched out.

Mari sat kitty-cornered from you, her notebook and phone set aside on a pillow. Just listening.

“Not even an original method. _Oh, that’s what Saeyoung did? I didn’t know!_ Come off of it.”

Saeran had been having the good majority of his therapy sessions without you by now, but he _had_ to dissect Rika some time. He’d assured you you wouldn’t be there as a security blanket, anyway; he’s come that far, he feels. More like a hotline to grounding, in case things went downhill.

“She _definitely_ didn’t see me as an individual, not at first, but I don’t think I ever became an actual human person from her perspective,” Saeran said, pinching and rubbing his lower lip, “I think I was more like a useful doll. A _tool_ might be more apt, but she dressed me up, and everything. Chose my clothes. In retrospect, it’s hilarious, but at the moment—I had this _ghastly,_ heavy wool, magenta coat.” He gestured up and down his chest and far enough down his legs to where the coat had fallen. “Gaudy as hell. Made me sweat a lot. I had to wear a cravat, too, in the twenty-first century. I remember not even questioning it, thinking that it would make her happy to see me in them. And they did for a while, but as with everything with her, if it weren’t new, she wouldn’t pay attention to it.”

Saeran peeled a strip of dry skin off his lip. “Don’t know what happened to my old shit; it disappeared one day. The only clothes I had that weren’t for show were my pyjamas, and—and I guess my whole life was a performance. I wasn’t allowed to relax. But being a tool—she must have wanted me to be an exact copy of Saeyoung as she’d heard about him. Or interacted. Who knows if she were secretly seeing him without me.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” asked Mari.

Saeran pinched his lip again. “Maybe not. She would—she would probably have tried to recruit him more strongly if he were a regular part of her life. She wouldn’t’ve needed me. If Rika had Saeyoung, I wouldn’t’ve served any purpose for her. God, she couldn’t—she couldn’t handle being a—a parental figure.” Saeran slipped his thumb slightly into his mouth, biting on his thumbnail. “I got passed around through the older members of Mint Eye; some of them parented me more than anyone else in my life, and _God_ , I don’t even know their names.”

Mari nodded and moved to sit on her knees. “How did you tell them apart from other members? Did you call them anything special in private?”

“No,” Saeran said slowly, “I called them by their designated believer numbers and nothing else. Um. K0004, K0106, and K0847. They were three women who took me around, mostly—there were others—but I liked them. Hardly around all of them at once; everyone was busy. _Holy_ shit, I don’t know their names, or where they are now, or even if they’re _alive_.” Saeran buried his face in his hands and sighed.

“Do you know if there’s any way you can contact them now?”

“Hm. Not sure,” said Saeran, dragging his hands down his face to rest on his neck, “It’d be nice if I could. But I don’t know how much I can do; we didn’t have registration pictures or files on past lives or anything. We had—there were files on prospective recruits, and I’d scan those before going out to recru—fucking _kidnap_ new members, but once you were cleansed, it’s as if your entire past life were erased. There would be a line or two about what your past vocation was, so that in case of an emergency, or something, you could find out who was a doctor. Otherwise, you’re gone.”

“And you erased all Mint Eye databases, correct?”

“Yeah, but I should have old editions of them backed up on an external hard drive,” said Saeran, “I—I bet I could start there. Thank you; I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You’re welcome. It’s why I’m here,” said Mari, “Do you have an idea of what you would do if you’re able to reconnect with those women?”

“I think,” said Saeran, “I think simply sitting down to talk with them would be nice. Seeing how they are. Thanking them, of course, for their help, for ensuring I wasn’t permanently lonely.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “I could show K0106 my plans for the garden; she was the one who fostered my love for gardening once V abandoned me. _Fuck_ , I hate the number system now.” He puffed out his cheeks. “I want to know everyone’s name, let everyone have their humanity. I feel like such a _dick_.”

“Well, I bet they, if anyone, noticed that you’re the one who broke up Mint Eye,” said Mari, “Assuming they’ve gotten the elixir out of their systems, they have probably recognised that you are the one who got them out of that toxic environment, and from you doing that, they may realise that you are improving. You can only get better from here.”

“ _Fuuuuuck_ , I hope so,” said Saeran, “Fuck it, I don’t wanna go back.”

Mari brushed a curl behind her ear. “You don’t have to. And if anything, back then, you didn’t know any better. You were a child. You were doing the best you could with what you had. No one can ask for more.”

***

“ _Shit_!” Saeran slammed on the brakes too early before a stoplight, tires screeching on the asphalt. “I meant to bring up more of the body regulations and Rika’s fucking hypocrisy,” he said, giving a brief, apologetic wave to the car behind you. “Shit, I went into therapy with the intention of bringing that up, and I didn’t. I can’t believe this.”

“It can be the first thing you talk about next time,” you said, sliding your sunglasses on, “You had a lot on your mind.”

“True. Don’t think I’ve brought it up before, but—” He laughed, shaking his head slightly while drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I _know_ that fucked me up. Y’know how male robes had gold thread while female robes had teal? We had to—to conceal the fact that we had _bodies_ —and—and while I wasn’t exactly interested in anyone before you, it was as if the intense repression of humanity and sexuality conditioned me to get turned on at excessive amounts of teal in a room. Like a perverted Pavlov’s dog.” Saeran jerked his head to the side, easing up on the brake when the light turned green. “And then the hypocrisy of her fucking around. Mixed signals as to what I’m supposed to think.”

“Well, that’s similar to that conditional-versus-unconditional-love thing of Rika’s that you brought up today. Inconsistent parenting. It’s more of the same in her otherwise _consistent_ behaviour,” you said, “New liver, same eagles.”

Saeran clicked his tongue. “Still, I _really_ don’t like how much of Mint Eye rhetoric affected me _sexually_ , of all ways,” he said, his eyes bulging for emphasis, “That’s fucked up.”

“Eh,” you said with a dismissive wave, “It wasn’t just you. It was messing up everyone there. You couldn’t’ve done better than the way you did. Plus, a lot of cults have fucked-up sex stuff.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” Saeran conceded, and he flipped on his turn signal merely moments before he turned right (very unhelpful). “Any route you take, V gets fucked.”

“Only metaphorically.”

“I don’t want to think excessively about that sewer rat.”

“All right,” you said, “Then let’s steer it literally: who fucks in the RFA?”

Saeran thought for a second, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Give me an example.”

“Yoosung gets fucked. Zen fucks but could be persuaded to be fucked, eventually,” you said, propping your elbow on the armrest and resting your chin on your fist to watch his expressions.

“All right,” he said after a moment, “Jaehee used to be in the business of fucking but currently does not. She could if she wanted to.”

“What, because she’s not around Mr. Dom Energy, she—”

“No, no, not like that,” Saeran said while tilting his head, his eyes on the road, “Because her life doesn’t revolve around being stressed and angry all of the time anymore. Jumin was a contributing factor to that environment, but it’s not because she’s no longer around a man. It’s as if—as if she could take her time instead of hastily having sex in a closet.”

“Got it,” you said, nodding, “Jumin _fucks_.”

Saeran shot you a sharp look, his eyebrow raised. “You don’t think he’s dying to be dominated?”

You scoffed.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s possible that since he’s totally in charge of everything he interacts with all of the time, he might want to relinquish control—”

“He’d be a freak in public if he had the guts,” you said, “Whenever he gets a significant other, he’d probably make them wear one of those subtle collar necklaces in public.”

“Oof,” said Saeran, wincing and putting a hand over his heart, “I can see that. I wish I couldn’t. Also, Vanderwood fucks but doesn’t make a habit of it.”

Nodding, you bit the inside of your cheek. Once again, it’s a game of _Where’s Saeyoung?_ But you didn’t need to bring him up. Instead, you smiled softly and asked, “What about you, Saeran?”

He tapped the brakes. “Do you not _know_?”

“ _Saeran_ —”

“ _I_ have sex with my beautiful wife in which we are attentive equals who cherish each other. Have you thought about getting a tubal litigation?”

“The hell? Saeran,” you said, crossing your legs.

“You know. Getting your tubes tied. An operation to make you sterile,” said Saeran, “since being pregnant terrifies you. I’ve been researching it—not a whole lot, but. I thought—if you wanted to do it—it might make you feel safer. More secure. Not! Not that I’m pressuring you into it.” He glanced sideways at you. “Just wondered if it’d crossed your mind.”

“It has, in passing,” you said, smirking, “This isn’t an elaborate ploy to fuck me raw?”

You expected him to flush, deny it, and chew on his knuckle, but Saeran was all seriousness when he said, “Absolutely not. I don’t care about how I feel. Your safety and security are _light years_ more important than whether or not I wanna wear a condom. _Sweetheart_ —” He blindly reached for your hand and brought it to his lips. “—I am _honoured_ you would even let me near you. Here, let me pull over.”

You made a dumb joke about pulling out, which made Saeran grin thinly while turning into a pharmacy parking lot.

Once parked (over the line), Saeran unbuckled and took both of your hands in his. “I don’t want you to have any shred of anxiety when you’re already allowing yourself to be so vulnerable for me. I want you to be able to be present and not have to worry about what might happen.”

Your fingers curled into his palms. “You’d give up having kids for me?”

His jaw dropping very slightly, Saeran squeezed your hands tightly before gripping your shoulders. “If it isn’t obvious, I don’t want kids; I want _you_. I made up my mind long ago.” Saeran exhaled shakily. “We’re busy re-parenting ourselves, anyway. And besides, don’t we have enough children simply by being in the RFA?”

“You,” you said, smiling, “just want to fuck me raw, don’t you?”

“ _Baby_ , you are _always_ gonna be my priority. I’ll tell you as often as you want me to,” he said, sliding a hand up your shoulder and neck to touch your cheek. “You’re _it._ You are the rest of my life. And I’ll do anything within my power to ease your emotional labour.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s just an option. Bad timing, I know, but I didn’t want to forget.”

“I’d like to do more research before I make a decision,” you said, “and I appreciate that you were thinking of me.”

“Of course,” said Saeran, like it was nothing at all.

“Thank you.” The movement of the pharmacy’s automatic doors caught your attention. “Want to get gummy worms while we’re here?”

Saeran’s eyes widened momentarily. “ _Yes_.”

***

Saeran set the latte in front of you on the hand-knitted coaster, and while tilting your laptop slightly closed, you grinned at the swan design on top.

“I thought a baker stays in the kitchen,” you said, cupping your hands around the mug.

“I can serve a customer or two if I want,” said Saeran, propping a fist on one of his narrow hips, “Especially if she looks _too_ absorbed in her work.”

“But seriously, Jaehee doesn’t mind?” You glanced towards the café counter, where Jaehee was ringing up some palmiers for a teenager.

“She’s distracted by the other new hire,” said Saeran, and he jerked his thumb towards a young woman in a similar blue apron stocking the canned fruit juices. “Think Jaehee’s taken with her.”

You narrowed your eyes and nodded. “Good for her,” you said, taking a sip of the swan latte, and you blinked twice before staring down into the mug. “Saeran, what’d you do to this? Is it new?”

“Yes, actually. I was screwing around with the add-ons. Mint white chocolate.” He placed a hand on the table to lean over you to look into your mug. “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” you said, nodding, “The mint is a _little_ strong, but it’s good.”

“I’ll work on the balance. Maybe it’s because I’m using that strong syrup shit,” said Saeran, scratching his neck, “I _would_ bring in mint from our window box, but it’s still not ready to harvest.”

“Only in a window box? I see,” came Jumin’s voice from behind him, “Perhaps that is why you have none readily available. I wonder how many square meters of mint in this climate—”

“Hi, Jumin,” you said, as Saeran, stepping aside to face him, shot out his hand to brace your shoulder before relaxing.

Amidst the soft, pink lights of the café and its generally laidback patrons, mostly comprised of hoodie-clad students and young adults on video calls, Jumin stood out with his rigid posture, pressed black suit, and two drinks in hand—one, the straight brew of the day, and the rather pink one with whipped cream he was currently slurping loudly through a straw. A single, white cat hair lay on his tie, caught in his tie clip.

Saeran gestured for Jumin to sit across from you at the table, and he obliged. “Those greenhouses are still waiting for you, should you want to use them for mint production,” Jumin was saying, working his way through the initial confusion of his spindly limbs at the short table, “Alternatively, if you wished to use the space, I still think it would be worthwhile to open a floristry.”

Saeran shook his head. “Not everything I love has to be made profitable. I’m more than content with a backyard garden.”

“Whenever you’re prepared to return to the world of hacking, I’ve got openings for you at C&R.”

“I’ll let _my wife_ be your only employee for the moment,” said Saeran, clapping your back.

“He’s only helping me find freelance clients,” you said quickly, “It’s not like—”

“I gave your card out to three more people today. Expect some emails,” said Jumin, now taking a swig of the straight black coffee.

“God, I hate checking my email. That’s where the emails are,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “Thank you for your help, Jumin.”

“What brings you by the café?” asked Saeran, “I thought you consulted Jaehee on Mondays.”

“Although I am effectively running a large corporation, I find it my civic duty to support small businesses,” Jumin said pointedly, and he clasped his hands together. “Additionally, on the café’s _new_ and _rather_ efficiently designed website—excellent job—I saw that a certain barista is capable of drawing latte art shaped like a cat, but then when I ordered, he wasn’t at the counter.”

“Fine, you fuckin’ lunatic,” said Saeran, reaching into the deep pocket of his apron for his flip notebook, “Do you want a third drink, or do you want me to perform a miracle with that black coffee?”

“New drink, if you _don’t_ mind.”

“Do you care what it tastes like? I’ve got flavours to work on.”

“So long as I do not taste genuine _cat_ , anything will be acceptable.”

You tugged on Saeran’s sleeve, bringing his ear closer to your mouth, and you stage-whispered, “I think Jumin Han _does_ gay.”

Saeran had already retreated behind the counter by the time Jumin understood the joke, and Jumin sank in his seat and hunched forward to suck through the straw of his pink drink, grumbling about studying the urban dictionary.

***

It had started as another planned Rika evaluation session, but it was steadily devolving.

“I don’t know _how_ the _fuck_ they got permission to keep me in the cathedral, but it sure was fucking bizarre,” said Saeran, lying flat on his back in the group therapy room, clutching a pillow to his chest, “I had a room in the steeple, and it shared a wall with a prayer room with a round, stained glass window of the Virgin Mary. If someone were praying in the next room, I could hear them. My room didn’t have any windows, and I was always pissed about that.”

Mari’s clipboard lay to her left, while she arranged herself cross-legged near Saeran. You had one of the foam earplugs in and a book open on your lap, so your attention was split between it and Saeran, therefore ensuring you didn’t really absorb anything at all.

“Hell if I know where Rika was staying, but it wasn’t in the cathedral. Wish I could pick the brains of the elders working there, to find out what they thought of some random twenty-something keeping a kid who looked _nothing_ like her in the church. Well—I _assume_ she was in V’s apartment, I guess.”

“Did you ever go to V’s apartment?” asked Mari.

Saeran squinted, pursing his lips at the ceiling. “If I did, I don’t remember.”

“Why didn’t you live at the apartment instead of the cathedral?”

Saeran opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. “Good fucking question. Maybe Rika couldn’t handle being a parental figure constantly, and so being able to retreat somewhere without me would—wait. V and Rika weren’t necessarily living together,” said Saeran, “Because V was taking care of Saeyoung and the agency. But Saeyoung—Saeyoung didn’t live in the apartment, either. Where was he?”

Saeran clamped a hand over his mouth and thought for a few moments.

Mari leant forward. “Would V have told you if Saeyoung had been nearby?”

“No. We had to be separated; I couldn’t know where Saeyoung was. Until this year, I’d thought he’d abandoned me because of how weak I was and how I was holding him back.”

Mari raised an eyebrow. “But that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. V and Rika were seeing each other regularly while taking care of one of each of you, with V still being prominent in your life despite Rika being your primary caregiver. If V were a caregiver in both your life and Saeyoung’s, why would you not be allowed to know where Saeyoung was? With V interacting with both of you, the two of you could _easily_ be connected.”

“Holy shit,” said Saeran. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to rub them. “Oh, my God. The more I think about V and Rika, the more I realise they weren’t fucking using their brains.” He dragged his hands down his face. “The only thing we wanted was to stay together. That was the only thing we had going for us, and it seems that they separated us for no good reason, especially since one, Rika wanted me to be like Saeyoung hacking-wise in Mint Eye, and two, Mint Eye was just as efficient in hiding me from our father as the agency was. Goddamn it. I’m tired.”

“You have every right to be,” said Mari, “You have been spending the better part of ten years dissociating yourself from your situation because the reality is too unpleasant to be present in all the time. You’ve been fighting yourself and what you’d been taught, with no true moral stability or stable figure in your life. You have every right to be exhausted.”

“Hey,” said Saeran, looking at Mari, “Everywhere online I read from personal accounts and shit that dissociation is a negative thing. From everywhere I read, everyone wants to stop it. You say it’s okay. Why’s that?”

“Dissociation is simply the way you have learnt to cope with what you’re going through. Your brain recognises when a situation is going to have negative consequences for your mental health, so it goes toward dissociating,” she said, “It’s just how you’ve learnt to survive.”

“It’s not inherently bad?”

She shook her head. “It’s a coping mechanism for you.”

“Got it.” Saeran pressed his palms over his eyes again. “But I want to know what they were all thinking. What their initial plan was and what they thought would happen. I’m hesitant to revisit the cathedral, because I might relapse if I go there, and Rika’s in solitary confinement, and—and no one’s allowed to visit her at the moment. And V is…V. He’s, uh.” Saeran removed his hands, blinking blankly at the ceiling, and then he jolted upright, the pillow falling to his lap. “Where the _fuck_ is V?”

***

“Does this dress look period accurate to you?” Shoving a hand in his shallow trouser pocket, Saeran drew your attention to a costume design hanging in the upper-right portion of the tri-fold display, and the two of you stepped to the side for other theatre patrons to see the display, too.

You tilted your head. “I don’t know enough to say why, but for some reason, it doesn’t look right. The side view.”

Saeran clicked his tongue. “Thought so.”

“It might be the initial costume sketch; we might not see it in production.”

“Then why show it?” Saeran placed his hand on the small of your back (warmth shooting up your spine at the contact), and he guided you forward. “Line’s moving. C’mon.”

You grinned at him now that you were between production displays. “How are we doing on the crowd?”

Standing on his toes, Saeran did a quick scan of the lobby. “It’s the last show. It looks like a bunch of students being forced into seeing this for class. I’m not intimidated by any of them,” he said, “though there are a lot of them.”

You took a step out of line to see the front of it and grimaced. “I hope they don’t fucking run out of will call tickets before we get there.”

“Inside’s probably empty, and all the people are in front-of-house. This is most likely all there’s going to be,” said Saeran with a smirk, “No one _willingly_ goes to see _Sunday in the Park with George_.”

“I resent that,” you said, narrowing your eyes and trying the best you could to read the next display (on what brought Lapine and Sondheim to write about George Seurat) over some shoulders as the line shuffled forward.

Parallels in Sondheim’s and Seurat’s life were interrupted by Saeran loudly saying, “ _Whaaaaaat_ in the _fuck._ ”

Waving off the old people who scowled his direction, you turned to look for whatever caused Saeran to say— _oh_.

Oh, you understood.

At the top of the staircase descending into the lobby hovered a cluster of theatregoers—so, whatever—but with his back to you stood someone with what looked like naturally turquoise hair.

A primordial vacuum commandeered your brain as you surged towards the staircase, evading Saeran’s swipes to grab you to keep you in the ticket queue, and casting a futile glance towards the front of the line, he abandoned your spot, jogging to keep up with you and taking two stairs at a time.

“Oh, hello, _greetings_ , V. Good _evening_ , Kim Jihyun,” you were saying as you shoved whoever the fuck V was talking to aside; it took V a moment to register that his acquaintance had been physically removed, and his eyes glazed over when he saw you—but the moment it sunk it that it was _you,_ and that was _Saeran_ rushing up behind, V showed the most emotion you’d ever seen him express in person: a mild lift of his eyebrows. “Where _have_ you been?” Beaming, you lay your hand on his chest to fucking slam him into the wall at the curve of the staircase. “Groomed any children we know lately?”

The group dissipated down into the lobby, and Saeran slipped his arms up from under your armpits, wrapping around your shoulders to hold you back—but you managed to get in a good kick at V’s calves anyway.

“Where have you been?” Still beaming, without it reaching your eyes. “I don’t know if you get reception in your artistic opium den, but Saeran and I _happened_ to break out on our own.”

V cleared his throat. “You’re looking well.”

You laughed. “I can and _will_ choke the life out of your eyes.”

“Baby, _please_ —” Saeran bent to mutter in your ear and tightened his grip. “Please. It’s fine. It’s _fine_ ; I swear.”

You fell still in Saeran’s arms, instead glaring up at V. “You could have _stopped_ her. You could’ve stopped Rika at _any_ time. Any point in the process, really, before building Magenta, before founding a cult. Before splitting them up. Why didn’t you?”

V crossed an arm over his chest to grip his opposite elbow, and he averted his gaze. “Right to the point, I see.”

“Bitch, no, you don’t. Blind-ass mother _fuck_ er,” you said, raising your hands to your shoulders to rest on Saeran’s. Wait, that’s a little too far. Back it up a smidge. “You never stopped enabling her. Never said anything she was doing was wrong until it was too late, and even then, in a half-hearted way. Tell me.”

Waiting for V’s answer, you dropped your hands, and Saeran rubbed his up and down your upper arms. He kissed the back of your head. _Calm down._

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” said Saeran, his voice cool and even in your ear, “We’re growing. We’ve grown enough that we don’t need to confront him physically. All we can do is ask for his perspective, and if that provides closure, then it provides closure. If it doesn’t, still.”

“ _Now_ you’re level-headed,” you said.

V gestured towards the lobby. “They’ve opened the theatre doors.”

“Eyes up here, Jihyun. Why didn’t you stop her?”

His mouth hung open for a moment before answering. “I thought I was. I thought my love for her could change her.”

“Oh, get _real_. No one has any power over how and when another person changes; they choose to change on their own. Rika chose to act maliciously towards an absurd amount of people who put their trust in her.” Your forehead ached from glowering so hard, and Saeran’s hold slid down to your waist to embrace you with an iron grip. “And when you were the only person she would listen to, you encouraged her. How far back does it go, Jihyun? How long have you looked Rika in the eye after malice and told her that all her behaviours are justified?”

V shuffled backwards—but his back hit the wall again, and he crossed his arms. “Don’t ask me such things.”

“C’mon, we’re wasting our time,” Saeran said softly to you, “Let’s go check will call—”

“I want a day. I want a specific action. When you fucking lost your empathy. What was it that caused you to go with her until the end of the line? What was the point of no return?” You shook off Saeran, but he clamped a hand on your shoulder before you could touch V again. “Was it the day you weaselled Saeyoung away like contraband twizzlers into a movie theatre? Or did it take something more than that? Was it—”

“It was the day we took Saeran from his mother’s house,” said V, suddenly very interested in the wallpaper, “I—I should have stopped her there.”

“Yeah? What happened? Fucking _tell_ me, Kim Jihyun. You’re not getting out of—”

“It wasn’t my fault; I didn’t know; I wasn’t inside until after their mom was dead, and Rika told me not to worry about it, to forget it, and I’m gonna—”

“Hold on.” Saeran’s icy voice shot straight over your shoulder, a shiver rushing under his grip. “Hold _on_. V. _V_ , are you _saying_ to my _face_ that _Rika_ is the cause of my mother’s death?”

V stood up straight and looked rather taken aback. He blinked. “Your mother wasn’t treating you well. We were rescuing you; we were doing the right thi—”

The front-of-house staff escorted the three of you out, with V bleeding from his nose and the crown of his head, you consoling/congratulating Saeran over his bloody knuckles, and a lifetime ban from the community college campus.

Once in the parking lot, V didn’t have any solid direction of where to go, and instead, he stopped under the nearest streetlight to your car and sighed loudly.

“Don’t be surprised that you eventually have to take responsibility for your actions,” said Saeran, his hands shaking as he pulled the car keys out of his pocket. He clicked the fob twice and shot a glance back at V. “Are you just gonna stand there and watch us drive away?”

“My ride is inside,” said V, and he stared directly into the streetlight.

You and Saeran quietly played paper-rock-scissors to see who’d drive back, as neither of you were in a safe, emotional state to be driving, and as Saeran cracked open the passenger door and propped his knee on the seat, he called over to V.

“V. Come get in the car.”

V pointed at his chest and mouthed _me?_

Saeran nodded. “Get your ass in the car. We’re not gonna murder you; we’re driving you home.”

V climbed in and waited until you’d backed out of the parking space to say, “I live over in—”

“I remember,” said Saeran.

So he did. Saeran directed you towards V’s neighbourhood under his breath. The radio remained silent (since you’d been pre-gaming _Sunday in the Park with George_ with its soundtrack). V had chosen to sit behind you—probably for the best—but it meant Saeran caught every motion out of his periphery.

You licked your lips. “Jihyun, I didn’t go about that the right way. I cornered you out of nowhere, and I was too strident. I just wanted answers that I’ve been wanting for a long time,” you said, “I do have anger directed at you, but it’s not all yours. I’m sorry for making you bear the brunt of it.”

“I shouldn’t’ve punched you,” said Saeran, sighing, “Hot damn, it felt _excellent_. But violence only breeds more violence. Please—please excuse me.”

In the two seconds you tore your gaze away from the road, you shot Saeran a small smile, which he nodded at.

“V— _Jihyun_ ,” Saeran began, glaring at the small stretch of road illuminated by headlights ahead of him, “Though I can’t guess what you’ve been thinking, I’ve been trying to understand your situation for a while now. I understand you are a product of your environment, and from what I’ve been privy to, your situation has not been ideal, either.”

In the rear view mirror, V gave a slight inclination of his eyebrows, which, on a person more accustomed to expressing emotion, would have been a scoff.

“Child neglect and domestic abuse can’t be thrown around lightly. I’ve been told that your father essentially told you that your worth was made once you did what he wanted you to—a kind of conditional love—while isolating you from your mom.” Saeran unfastened his first button on his shirt and moved on to his second. “I understand that you thought you deserved the abuse and that you were _made_ to be abused, that your choice to withstand abuse from others may have made you feel like you could love people through your own choices, instead of your being comprised of the image people have placed on you.”

V fiddled with his fingers in his lap. “How do you know all of that?”

“Am I correct? I listen. Been listening for over a decade. More attentively, now that I have more than one source. And now I’m thinking back on what all I’ve heard through the lens of empathy, along with the tools I’ve been learning at therapy.” Saeran plucked his collar away from his skin, and he wiped away sweat on his neck. “You have trauma that I can never know about. You’ve been dealing with it on your own. You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“You’re—you’re…” V hung his head, and his next words sunk into the air. “You’re much more of an adult than I thought you’d be. Than I ever could be.”

You made eye contact with him in the rear view. “You were doing the best you could with what you had.”

“What you did still _sucked—_ ”

“—but you were trying your best,” you said, turning into V’s neighbourhood, “Right? Don’t answer that.”

“I’m pretty sure I hate you,” said Saeran, “but I’m not letting my life be ruled by hatred any more. I want no part of it.”

“That’s,” said V, “That’s good.”

“It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” Saeran groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose while you turned into V’s driveway, and as you put the car into park, he dragged his hand down his face. He unbuckled and turned to face V. “Okay. Okay. Two questions, and we’ll let you go. Two questions. God, my head hurts. I don’t have access to all of my memories at the cathedral. I know I’m repressing them,” he said, “I don’t know how to unlock them. The journal I kept as a kid doesn’t help, so my first question is this: what’d you do with her body, Jihyun? My mother’s.”

V sat in silent shock for longer than was comfortable, but then he bowed his head and concentrated on remembering. “I’m not certain,” he said eventually, “I don’t know what happened to her. I _do_ know that the ceremony we held—with you, me, and Rika—I do know that your mother wasn’t in that grave.”

The corner of Saeran’s mouth twitched. “What do you mean?”

V slowly looked up at Saeran, and when he spoke, he barely opened his mouth. “Rika picked out the spot we held the ceremony purely based on how much the sun shone on it. She picked it that morning. I assumed she took care of—other things.”

“Wow, thanks. That opens up more questions, but I honestly don’t wanna be in your presence much longer. Question two: have you been to the prison?”

“I wasn’t allowed to see her.”

“You’re sick. Stop crawling back to her.”

“Time to go home, Jihyun,” you said coolly, “Open the door. Get out of the car.”

“If we want to talk to you again, we’ll contact you, but expect nothing. Don’t reach out to us,” said Saeran, crossing his arms as V opened the car door and stepped outside.

The two of you watched V walk up to his front door, and you rolled down the window when he had his hand on the knob. “Wait! V, hold on!” You snatched the business card for _Eureka Moment_ out of the CD rack and scribbled out Mari’s and Suzy’s contact information out of the list of therapists on the back.

Before V could return to the car, you tossed the card out the window like a frisbee. “Get well soon, dipshit.”

You backed out of his driveway before he could even pick it up.

***

“Anger is an expression of individuality. It gives you the energy to do things differently and shows that you’re learning to value yourself and your values, that you’re worth defending,” said Mari, “It’s usually a good sign when people who are depressed or anxious are aware of being angry, because it means they’re starting to care about themselves.”

“But I shouldn’t’ve fucking punched him,” said Saeran, his hands curling into fists in his hair, “That’s something the old me would have done. Pre-therapy me.”

“Maybe the _act_ would be something you would’ve done in Mint Eye, but the reasoning behind it is different. Look at the difference in motivation.”

“I punched V out of some—some righteous anger? I wanted to make some crack at making atonement for what I endured—but my shit wasn’t all physical, so it really wasn’t thought out or equal.” Closing his eyes, Saeran pinched his lip. “In Mint Eye, if I hurt someone, it was because I held rank, that I thought I was better than they were, or that they needed to be punished for stepping out of line. It was cruelty.” Saeran flipped onto his side, facing Mari. “I don’t want to feel anger. It feels like I’m relapsing. And it feels like I _shouldn’t_ be angry toward V, yet I am.”

“Anger has become an uncomfortable emotion for you, but you still have the freedom to explore it and walk out of it at your own pace. There’s nothing wrong with being angry,” said Mari, “Why do you think you shouldn’t be angry at V?”

“Because I— _fuck_ —because I wanted him to like me so badly. Goddammit.” Saeran pushed himself up to sit against the wall, and he crossed his legs. “When I was newly stolen and young and dumb and in the cathedral—”

“Back up.”

“Shit. Young me wasn’t dumb. Young me didn’t know how to handle things. Young me was a fucking child.”

“Good. Keep going.”

“He didn’t come by as often as Rika, but I thought he was so cool. I lived on the daydream of going on a photography trip with him for _months_. It must have been the fantasy of learning something that wasn’t going to be exploited.”

“ _Or,_ ” said Mari, clicking her pen, “it was your young self reaching out to have his needs met: to grow, to be known, and to express himself. Spending time with V would allow young you to fulfil all of these things in one go.”

Saeran made a strangled noise, slapping his hand over his eyes.

Mari waited.

“And we never did shit,” said Saeran, moving his hand from over his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Lots of talking, no doing. I wanted so badly for him to accept me, but he was always flitting around, like he couldn’t be stable in any one place. And then—then when Rika became my life, she talked constant shit about him, so, yeah. Conflicting messages. And I suppose my current self knows that ultimately, he treated me like shit, even though he didn’t mean to, but the person I used to be still wants him to love me?”

“Do you need his love?”

Saeran paused. “No,” he said after a while, “My needs are more than met elsewhere. I know I am loved and known.”

***

You’d hardly had time before processing the text, and from on the dresser on the dimmed screen of your phone, it plunged your heart into a bucket of ice water. Digging the heels of your palms into your eyes until purple splotches appeared, you groaned, and you pushed them up and away to thread your fingers through your hair.

“Baby, I need an outside pair of eyes to look at my garden plan,” a laundry-basket-bearing Saeran was saying as he kicked open the bedroom door, “I finally worked out how to mix the soil types by bed, and I need to ensure it makes sense. Will you do that for me?” He set the laundry basket down by the dresser with a huff and opened a drawer to put folded shirts away, but he stopped when his gaze lowered to your ass, your shirt having ridden up while you were messing with your hair.

“Those are new,” said Saeran, nodding towards your underwear (navy, lace boyshorts), “You look nice.”

“Hm? Thank you,” you said, dropping your hands, “I was actually about to change out of them; they’re cheaply made, and the seams have been rubbing up against me for a while.”

“No rush. Are you busy? Then allow me to steer you to—” Saeran gripped your waist from behind and spun you to perch on the edge of the bed.

“That was quick,” you said, tucking hair behind his ear as he knelt between your parted legs, “Is this how we’re going to discuss the garden?”

Saeran grinned up at you, and then he encircled his arms around your waist snugly, lurching you forward to press his face between your breasts. He sighed, sinking farther into your sweater. “I’ve come to a stopping point. Tell me how you’ve been doing.”

You sighed, too, and you pressed your lips to the top of his head as you wrapped your legs around him to bring him closer to you, your bare heels lightly resting on his ass. “I finished work for the day about an hour ago, and though I’ve been trying to take a nap, I can’t stop thinking about how I acted towards V at the theatre.”

“Mm, don’t mention him while I’m between your thighs,” said Saeran, nuzzling your boob.

“I’ll stop once things get explicit.”

Saeran slapped a hand to your clit and moved to cup you through the lace.

“ _Saeran_ —”

“Fine,” he said into your sweater, instead using that hand to massage your inner thigh in hazy little pulses. “What _about_ that night?”

“I was considering how we could have approached him differently. But, I think, since we were able to address what we had done wrong later to V that evening, I think we did okay. Not the best, obviously, but confronting V was better than acting like nothing happened. Maybe.” Groaning, you clonked your head onto Saeran’s, burying your face in his hair. “I’m gonna have flashbacks to that night and how differently we could’ve handled it for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah,” said Saeran, “Fuck, I detest how much of my brain is occupied by him. I want to live—here, now, with _you_. Not re-living the past and regretting what I’ve done.”

You hummed as Saeran’s remaining arm around your waist sneaked down your side, allowing his cold hand to slide under the hem of your shirt. When his fingertips reached the clasp of your bra, you said, “Would you consider yourself unequivocally a boob man?”

“Over ass? It swops on the day, but I lean boobs,” said Saeran, making eye contact as he kissed your nipple through your sweater. “I’d rather see your face more than anything, and if I can see your face, your boobs are usually nearby.”

“Oh, _well_ -spotted.”

“You know what I mean,” Saeran grumbled, “It’s related to why I’d rather not take you from behind, too. Your expressions mean the world to me, and I like being able to kiss you. You, however—” Saeran nodded his thanks as you manipulated your bra straps off through your sleeves. “—I happen to have hard evidence that you have a thing for collarbones.”

“ _Your_ collarbone,” you said, planting a hand in his hair to scratch his head gently, “but it’s not even my current favourite physical part of you.”

“You have my complete attention. Say more right now.”

“Lately, I’ve _really_ been feeling your—wait, actually, they’re so new that you might not even know you have them. Saeran, do you know about the little dimples above your ass?”

“The _what_?”

“They dip in, right here,” you said, prodding the spot with your heels, “and they happen to be _extremely_ attractive.”

Easing away from you, Saeran grinned. “Let me show you something I love that you may not know about. Up on the bed,” he said, pointing as he rose to stand between your legs, “C’mon. Lie flat.”

Raising your eyebrows, you scooted backwards until you were lying down, and Saeran rounded to the side of the bed to join you after kicking off his slippers.

“All right,” he said, his head propped on his fist with his elbow digging into the pillow. His other hand lay on your stomach before grazing up your waist. “Face me. Lie on your side. That’s it,” he said when you inched closer into him for your head to be against his chest, “Good girl. Now, are you paying attention?”

Once you nodded into his chest, his hand slid down over your ass and squeezed when he got to the bottom of it.

“You _just said_ you’re a boobs man—”

“I’m not talking about your ass—though I could, for ages, if you wanted me to. I meant this curve, right here, where your ass meets your thigh.” Saeran tapped the crease with his middle finger before nestling back against it. “Holding you here is somehow a deep, gossamer intimacy to me. It’s secure. Like I’m protecting you.”

“Saeran, that’s delightful. Thank you for telling me.”

He squeezed the spot again and kissed your forehead. “May I touch you?”

“Of course,” you said, and you followed when he sat up, his back to the headboard after tossing pillows to the side. “Hold on,” you said as he pulled you between his legs, your back to his chest (your legs spread more widely than what was comfortable to line up against his: a residual impulse from darker days), “Have you checked the timer on the slow cooker recently?”

“Had an hour and a half left on it when I got the laundry.” Saeran licked the outline of the shell of your ear, from the lobe upwards, and at the top curve of cartilage, he bit lightly. “The heat from it has dried the base layer for the pineapple; I can go over it with at _least_ green or brown paint before dinner.” He kissed the back of your ear. “You said these were bothering you, so let’s take them off,” he said, rubbing your hip with his thumbnail just under the lace.

Removing your underwear in a stupid manner, you raised your hand to chuck them over to the rattan chair that had unofficially become the dirty laundry chair, but Saeran caught your fist. “Not yet,” he said, “I have an idea, should things go well.”

“Oh? Lay it on me,” you said, straining your head to the side to kiss him on the cheek, at which he cracked a small smile.

With a muted grunt from the back of his throat, Saeran laid his hands flat on your hips, applying enough force to feel it in your hipbones. From there, he eased them down the _v_ when your legs met your pelvis, briefly curving them downwards to graze your ass overhandedly before retreating, his thumbs and index fingers connecting to form a triangle for a moment. He let out a hot breath against your neck and said, “Hook your legs over mine for me.”

When you did, Saeran ran his hands up your thighs to your knees and back, and he kissed behind your ear again. “If only you could see yourself.”

“You haven’t _done_ anything.”

“Mm, exactly,” he said, biting your earlobe, and after affectionately tugging on your pubic hair, he planted his palm atop it to part your labia with two fingers; his other hand grazed up and down your vulva in full before the tips of his ring and middle fingers came to tap twice against your clit. “If you’ll allow me a selfish request,” said Saeran, sliding the full length of those two fingers down to his palm across your clit to return to a delicate tapping of his fingertips, “Talk to me. Doesn’t matter about what. I want to hear when your voice hitches.”

Letting out a laugh while determinedly not looking at your phone on the dresser, you said, “Should I talk about, like, shark attacks or something? There actually was one on the coast not too long ago.”

“You are not doing a very good job,” said Saeran, licking up the outside of your ear, “Go mundane.”

You took a moment while Saeran’s ring and middle fingers parted _just slightly_ to catch each side of your clit, tightening in to pinch it. “The next time we go to the store, we need more dish soap.”

“And dryer sheets; we’re down to our last few—wait. Not like that.”

Scrunching around the best you could, you kissed him, only capturing half of his mouth, but his lips opened to welcome you, anyway. His mouth followed yours when you broke away, and you looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Then direct me, Saeran.”

Saeran inhaled sharply. “All right,” he said, taking your chin to aim your face forward and rubbing his warm cheek against yours, “All right, sweetheart. Tell me about the garden.”

Through your own cheek, you poked his with your tongue. “I haven’t seen the final draft.”

“I’ve done some rearranging, true, but if you’ll picture it in your mind. Describe it to me.” He lifted his whole hand from you only to draw the backs of his fingers vertically over your labia, straying to the sides now and then but not going so far as his other hand, which lay on your inner thigh, massaging you gently.

Your brain short-circuited for a moment before closing your mouth and eyes. “The first image is that I can’t see the forest around our house for how overgrown the garden is.”

“Very good.” Saeran cupped your sex, his thumb stroking your clit diagonally while his middle finger hardly pressed into you at all, yet the index and ring fingers applied more pressure than it on either side, preparing you for the stretch in the most infinitesimal of ways. “What colours do you see?”

“At first, it looks more like tangled masses of green more than anything, so wild and overrun, but we’ve grown an arch—or maybe it’s on a trellis—and past it the colours fucking knock you out,” you said, blinding sweeping your arm with a low whistle (Saeran grabbed it and kissed the inside of your wrist), “Mostly pink and yellow. I’m picturing it on an incline, but the land outside is pretty flat.”

“Don’t go logical,” said Saeran, and he tapped all of his fingers against you in a ripple, took to circling your clit with varying pressure, and slid half of his middle finger in you. “Tell me what you see.”

You made a soft noise in the back of your throat. “Why only halfway?”

“It was _intentional_ , sweetheart.” Saeran pulled back to bite your earlobe, and he slipped his entire finger into you and just let it _sit_ ; his other hand released your thigh to devote itself only to rub your clit. “I could feel you beginning to clench around _nothing_ , so I’d thought I’d indulge you, just a little. Don’t make me regret it.” His lips were so close to your ear that you _felt_ him lick them. “I don’t know if you can feel it yet, but you’re fluttering around my finger, and it’s not even doing anything.”

“Zoom in on your other hand,” you said.

_That_ was rubbing your clit in a pattern that your brain vaguely registered as a painting technique Saeran had used to get a certain slant of light shine on his fruit wall, but before you could cast your mind out to garner which fruit he’d used it on, he swopped to circling it, pressing down harder only coming up on the right side of your clit, which had your hips leaning into the upstroke. It was as if Saeran were persuading your body to throb by creating a simulated one, and boy howdy, was it—

You gasped with some vocalisation behind it, but it came out with the force of a violent hiccup and hurt your chest.

Saeran had two fingers inside of you now, and he pulled them out _slowly_ to the tips before shoving them back in. When you gushed around them, he said under his breath, “I think you’re wet enough.”

Clearing your throat, you said, “Bruh, for _what_?”

Saeran picked up your underwear and held it up in front of you, twisting it around to—hm? What’s he looking for? Whatever—he let the lace fall around his hand.

“Baby, what’s—”

Your breath hitched when he put two fingers inside of you, this time lace-covered in an effort to work all of it inside you.

“ _There_ you are,” said Saeran, pulling his fingers out to stuff more fabric in, all the while rubbing your clit, “You’re so _fucking_ gorgeous, babe; you look nearly divine like this.” His chest expanded behind you as he took a deep breath. “You’re flushed a pretty pink, and it’s not only your cheeks. It goes all the way back to—”

When Saeran _bit_ your ear, you scrunched up your eyes and sucked in through your teeth, and he kissed the spot over and over while working more of the lace inside you. He smirked against your skin when you clenched over both his fingers and lace, and after that, he picked up his speed on your clit.

“I _believe_ you were talking about the garden,” said Saeran, his voice gravelly in your ear.

“Oh, God,” you said with difficulty, “You’re gonna make me do that?”

“Humour me.”

“Fu—fuck, okay. All right,” you said, squirming, “So, obviously the massive, gnarled cherry tree stays the centre of things; what ki—kind of—?”

Saeran tucked the last of the lace underwear inside you, and after circling your entrance with his little finger, he began pumping two fingers in and out of you. “It’s a Higam cherry tree. A cherry tree in the style of a weeping willow.”

“Fuck, that’s—” Your hips spasmed out of his lap entirely. “That’s gonna look so cool in the spring.” The lace dragged against your insides, a strange combination of rough and delicate, but those irritating seams really did the trick; _those_ should have been scruffing against your walls, but with the way you were gushing at Saeran’s touch—almost like lace spread across more area inside you than what was usually covered, but that, that couldn’t be right—and was it just you, or was it _stupidly_ frustrating that you simultaneously had something new to clench around yet not enough?

“I hope so,” said Saeran, lightly pinching your clit, “Keep going.”

You swallowed. “Nothing like—nothing like Magenta in terms of—I had to censor this American philosopher Thoreau for my work in Mint Eye, and while he’s pretentious, he knows his— _shit_ , Saeran, you’re already killing me _without_ a third finger; why’d you—? But anyway,” you said, grasping Saeran’s thighs with your nails digging in, “ _Thoreau_ , he said some shit like ‘All good things are wild and free,’ and I’ve—Mint Eye’s garden had too much manmade shit in it. The gazebo, the stone paths, the way some plants were cut to be shaped—too much civilisation in it. Ours I’d like to be _wild_ and—”

_Free_ turned into a silent gasp as you came around Saeran’s fingers, hips bucking up each time he thrust them in. “ _Baby_ ,” Saeran said through a groan (you tightened up at that), “You’re so good to me, so _precious_ ; I’m such a lucky man to—”

“ _Saeran_ ,” you spluttered almost into his neck (you couldn’t consciously turn your head enough) as you were winding down, hips giving one last twitch before settling, “Saeran, I _love_ you.”

“And I love you.” He kissed your forehead and then whatever part of your face he could reach, and when your hips finally stilled and you were taking deep breaths, he slowly pulled his fingers out of you. When he held them up and spread them, all three had a string of arousal connecting them.

Saeran made a desperate sound from the back of his throat. “Oh, _baby_ ,” he said, turning his hand around for another view, “You’re so lovely. I can’t—” He cut himself off with a laugh. “Since I didn’t use my mouth this time, and I’m _dying_ to taste you—”

Grinning with your teeth cutting into your bottom lip, you listened to Saeran softly cleaning his fingers and the subtle wrapping of his tongue around them. “You’re a pervert, you know that?”

“Yes, I like to think so,” said Saeran, “Are you ready for me to pull those out?” He tapped his clean (?) fingers around your entrance, the barest bit of lace poking out from your orgasm.

“Yeah,” you said, “Go ahead.”

Saeran held your hand while he pinched the end of the lace underwear and gradually tugged them out, the lace dragging at your insides the whole way (you accidentally gave a residual spasm) with each revealed inch being coated in the clear film of your arousal. Saeran swore under his breath behind you.

“You gonna need those to help you finish?” you asked, shifting slightly to run your nails down his chest, “Put them in your mouth while I suck you off?”

Brow furrowing, Saeran bit his knuckle, fisting your underwear in his other hand. “ _I love you._ I love you so much; you’re so _kind_ and—” He bit his knuckle again, his tongue flicking out. “There’s not a classy way to say I came in my pants, is there?”

“What?” Your eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t even notice! I’m so sorr—”

“Excellent. This was about _you,_ ” said Saeran, “Now, after I clean us up, do you want to go ahead and start cooking, or do you want to take a short nap first? We have enough time.”

_Not really_ , you wanted to tell him (wiping you down, getting changes of clothes for you both, setting a timer for when to get up), but you’d been told not to say anything, and _you couldn’t bring yourself to,_ as if your tongue were frozen to the roof of your mouth.

Nevertheless, when the timer went off, you and Saeran got to work in the kitchen, with him refreshed and you nervous. The exact time it would happen eluded you, so you broke the evening into minor steps to help you focus.

Like Saeran slipping the loop of your matching apron over your head for you, then spinning you around to tie it in the back.

Saeran taking a few minutes to paint a green layer over his pineapple on the wall.

Making the oven mitts say silly puppet jokes.

At least the peppers were in the refrigerator this time.

And it fucking happened while Saeran had his back to the kitchen archway, while he was drizzling sesame oil over the stir-fry and harmonising to the song you were singing. You were scraping the bad parts of the onion into the trash when Saeyoung walked into the kitchen only to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

It’s him, all right, even though you’ve never met: he’s carved out of the same stone as your husband, but even standing still he flittered, like he wasn’t quite solid—like he might blow away any second, or as if he’s translucent and you might see right through him. Same face, save for a minor difference in fat distribution (Saeyoung was more jawline where Saeran was cheekbone, but it wasn’t huge), same shoulder width, same height. Your husband, as a perfect stranger.

Besides the hair and eyes, but whatever.

You did the only thing you could think of. “You should have cut the onion. You have _glasses_ ; your eyes would’ve been protected.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t—” Saeran turned to face you but stopped at Saeyoung in the archway, with his odd posture, fucking Gucci glasses, a large, paper sack in hand, and the most awkward smile you’ve seen in a long time.

For a beat, only the stir-fry made any noise, and then Saeran turned back to the stove. “Would you start the tea, darling?”

Oh?

You lifted the kettle out of the drying rack and hooked it over the tap, and you shared a frazzled look with Saeyoung, who yanked at his collar for dramatic effect.

It took Saeyoung until you’d filled the kettle and set it on to boil to speak up. “Hi,” he said, his voice a whole lot jauntier than you remembered, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m your brother, Saeyoung—”

“Of _course_ I remember you, you stupid idiot,” said Saeran, and he sighed while prodding a pepper around. “Hold up. I didn’t intend to start like that. Forgive me.”

“Done,” said Saeyoung, fervently nodding, “Call me a stupid idiot all you want. I encourage it, even.”

“You’re trespassing.”

“Yeah, _well_ , the front door was locked, but the back door wasn’t, and I’ve been wanting to see you for so long; I know I haven’t been necessarily _good_ , but I’ve been holding back so much. I’ve been waiting for you to settle—”

“How do you know where we live?”

“Jumin has it written down,” said Saeyoung, scratching the back of his neck, “Funny thing, that—I meant to mail you some gifts way earlier, but you don’t have an address. The great part is that my bunker is deeper into the forest, so—”

You looked up from the box of teabags you were leaving through. “You _live_ here?”

“Around, yeah.” Saeyoung shrugged. “Thought Jumin might’ve done that on purpose.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” said Saeran, and he turned the heat off for the stir-fry. “I’m gonna kill Jumin.”

Saeyoung laughed nervously, his eyes darting to the side. “Are you? I thought you were over—”

“I need you to listen,” said Saeran, and he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned against the counter (not very intimidating in his frilly, pink apron that matched yours, though). “I have a fair amount of unresolved anger towards you. I haven’t processed it yet, because it’s not a priority. Dealing with Rika has been. Recovering from being a fucking drugged-up _tool_ has been. I’m not in the right state of mind to properly reconnect with you.”

Saeyoung pursed his lips. “I see.”

“I’m not finished. I recognise that my perception of you is warped and not your fault, but I haven’t worked through it. Some day, things will most likely be all right between us again, but it’s not today. I’m not ready.”

“I’ll wait! I’ll wait forever, like a tool,” said Saeyoung, crinkling his paper bag in his earnest grip and straining to maintain that smile, “Because I get it; I’m not worth it; I’m not a priority, and it’d be a real pain if I tried to—”

“Stop right there,” said Saeran, brandishing the spatula in Saeyoung’s direction, “We don’t self-deprecate anymore in this household. Go back and say something positive about yourself.”

Saeyoung’s mouth opened and then closed. “Huh?”

“If you can’t say something positive,” you said, already adding a third teabag to the kettle, “say something neutral about yourself. Thinking of yourself in neutral terms works as a transition to thinking in positive ones.”

Saeyoung glanced at the floor, grinded his teeth in thought, and said, “I am the funniest person alive.”

Though Saeyoung couldn’t see it, his comment made Saeran curl in his lips to suppress a grin, and before he spoke, Saeran caught sight of the third teabag string hanging off the kettles and shot you a wink.

“All right, then, Saeyoung,” said Saeran, “I believe I can put things on hold and pretend to be okay for a night.”

“Ugh, _same_ ,” said Saeyoung, setting the paper bag on the counter.

The two of you let Saeyoung ramble for a while, all up to plating the food and sitting in the living room, since the table in the kitchen had two chairs. And all of what he said was charming, in a baffling way, and most of it was along the lines of, “Oh, _Mrs, Choi,_ ” he would say, waggling his eyebrows each time, “This food is so delicious; it’s like God Himself is shoving His hand down my throat! Wow, this exposed brick is so enchanting, those tea lights everywhere—are those snowflake-shaped fairy lights?”

“Saeyoung,” you said once he stopped to chew, “Are you doing okay?”

He rushed to swallow. “Ha, do I seem nervous? I’m not nervous,” he said nervously.

“I meant in general.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course! Jumin’s a fun boss, especially since I can bully him around—”

“I _meant_ ,” you said, leaning over the coffee table towards him, “Are you taking time for yourself and doing things that you enjoy? You’re not just holing yourself up from the world to be miserable?”

Saeyoung smacked his lips, clicking his chopsticks together. “Yeah,” he said after a bit, “I’ve been sneaking in to see Elly a lot; she always makes me feel better. I’ve, uh, taken up building custom PCs for people who want them. I like making them all swirly with neon lights, and stuff.”

“Really,” said Saeran, tucking the end of a pepper into his mouth, and he held up a finger for Saeyoung to wait until he finished chewing. “Would you teach me?”

Saeyoung’s jaw dropped, and then his eyes lit the fuck up. “ _Would_ I _teach_ you?”

“Just answer the damn question.”

“It would be my _honour!_ ” Saeyoung bowed at the waist, even though he was seated (you got a heavy whiff of the excessive axe he was wearing). “Just, uh—whenever you want to start. No rush. I really would love to. It’s very calming, seeing it all come together.”

“Cool,” said Saeran, “It may be a while from now, but I’d like to learn.”

“I will be,” said Saeyoung, shaking his fist, “the _best_ teacher. I will teach you to build computers better than I can build them. You’ll be—”

“What else are you doing nowadays?” Saeran asked.

Saeyoung snuggled back into the armchair, slumping back to place his bowl on his stomach. “Actually, that’s part of what I brought you. If you’d like to peruse the brown paper bag at your feet, you’ll see your gifts for your wedding-slash-birthdays-slash-Christmas-slash-welcome-to-the-family.”

Since you were finished eating, you pulled out the two boxes on top.

“Sorry I didn’t wrap them,” he said while you examined the pink and yellow switches, “but I figured you might like to join Yoosung and me when we play Animal Crossing, and stuff. I got you both a copy, so you don’t have to share an island. I figured we could all have crack hours together. Hit each other with our nets.”

You held them both out to Saeran, thinking the same thing: Rika’s switch was yellow. You vaguely wondered what happened to it.

“I’ll take the yellow one,” you said.

“Good,” said Saeran quickly, “I wanted the pink one, anyway. Saeyoung, thank you.”

“Thank you, Saeyoung.”

“Ha, it’s really quite selfish of me, since I want to complete my catalogue,” said Saeyoung, but his grin stretched across his face so widely it might crack it in two. “No problem. _And_ if you look further, there’s something else in the bag.”

After setting the copies of Animal Crossing on the coffee table, you lifted out some unmarked cylinders, not too heavy, ranging in size from your thumb to a can of Arizona tea. “The heck are these?”

“I made some fireworks for New Year’s and never set them off,” said Saeyoung, “Thought you guys might want to. You don’t have to tonight; I can leave—”

“I think we’ll set them off now,” said Saeran, grinning.

And they were _fabulous_ ; each one lit up the sky in bright shockwaves, each effect different as Saeyoung had tried to engineer shapes and patterns, and occasionally, he’d failed, but it was still a laugh. No neighbours around to complain, no homeowners’ association to fine you—you’d had a brief worry that the treeline might catch on fire, but that disappeared once sparklers were brought out. In between lighting fireworks, Saeyoung filled the two of you in about past RFA parties and how they’d compare to the revamped RFA party in the near future, along with explanations of what chemicals were in each firework to make it each colour—did you know, he’d said, that all blue fireworks aren’t blue? They’re actually purple. You can’t make a blue firework.

Nevertheless, Saeyoung was striding down the driveway to light the final firework of the night, a gargantuan thing he’d named the Blue Buddha Chip.

Saeran crossed his arms, his mouth in a lopsided grin as Saeyoung squatted and struggled to light the match.

You nudged his hip. “He’s not bad, you know.”

“I know,” said Saeran, looking out of the corner of his eyes at you, “I’ve got to learn to be better before we all can be, though.”

At the spark, Saeyoung bolted back down the driveway, frantically holding onto his glasses as his jacket whipped behind him.

“Hey.” Saeran leaned down to whisper. “Saeyoung. He fucks and gets fucked.”

Your laughter stood out over the shrill _whizz_ turning into a _bang_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reader: *makes pussy joke*
> 
> jumin: *has to think about it*


End file.
